One Hundred Days To Say 'I Love You'
by Lindsey Grissom
Summary: Or: Mr Carson realises that he is no longer happy to simply be Mrs Hughes' friend and sets out to show her how he feels; life happens along the way. Set between The London Season and the start of Series 5.


**A/N: **So, for my birthday I take cakes into the offices and well, think of this as a nice sweet, cream-filled puff pastry delight to celebrate me aging by another year. I started it around the third episode of Series 5, with the slightly bumbling Mr Carson. It's fluffy and light and hopefully just fun! There might be some spoilers, if you're looking close enough, but this is set in the time between the trip to Brighton and the start of Series 5.

* * *

><p><strong>One Hundred Days To Say 'I Love You'<strong>

**{November, 1923}**

**Thursday 1****st****.**

He hovers outside her door. Takes a few steps forward, turns abruptly on his heel and walks back.

He looks a fool and is only glad that he waited until everyone else had gone up before attempting this.

With a sharp tug on his jacket he heads back to her door.

He is going to do it, just walk in and-

{a thump as she puts down her book, the soft scrape of a chair being pushed back under a desk, her even tread as she makes her way to her door}

-with a quick huff, he passes straight by her sitting room and rounds the corner, takes the back stairs up to the attics.

Leaning back against his hastily closed bedroom door, Charles shakes his head ashamed.

Tomorrow he will try again. No, tomorrow he will _succeed_.

-x-x-x-x-

**Friday 2****nd****.**

The thing is, he loves her.

It is as simple and as complicated as that.

And love has a habit of turning him into the kind fool who blithers around doorways and cannot build up the nerve to enter and ask the object of his affections if she will accompany him on a walk.

Just a walk. Or perhaps he should start with tea? At the little tea shop in Ripon she likes. He can arrange for Mrs Bates and Mr Barrow to cover for them, it should not be too hard to arrange to take the same half day.

Or would that be too much, to be seen in public? Would it be better to start with tea in his pantry?

Of course, they've been taking tea in his pantry and her sitting room for nearly two decades now. So definitely a walk.

Although it is getting quite cold out these days, would she think him strange to want to be out in the inclement weather?

So if not tea or a walk, where does that leave him?

He will not ask her today, no, he'll wait, think on it some more.

Love has never been very kind to him.

-x-x-x-x-

**Wednesday 7****th****.**

Has he ever met another woman so beautiful when angry?

Her eyes flash like the centre of a flame, her cheeks flush a delightful pink and in certain lights he is sure that her very hair takes on a red hue.

It is everything he can do not to provoke her intentionally.

Of course, unintentionally, he tends to provoke her more than enough anyway.

It's not until her eyes narrow at him and she says "do you find this funny, Mr Carson?" that he realises he is standing there with a smile on his face.

Her hands find her hips and she glares.

Somehow he convinces her that he finds nothing humorous in their disagreement and she leaves with only a single frustrated huff in his direction.

He shuts his pantry door behind her before he can do something stupid, like ask her to accompany him to the fair next Friday.

Now is not the time for his courage to make an appearance.

-x-x-x-x-

**Thursday 8****th****.**

The fair. He thought of it yesterday, caught up in the tail end of her ire. But now he has had time to think on it properly.

It's the perfect solution to his problem. He can accompany her and no one will suspect it is anything more than the two heads of staff, two friends, enjoying the entertainment and watching over the others.

And he has never been with her before, so to _them_ it will mean something.

If she agrees of course. He will have to take care to word it just right.

-x-x-x-x-

**Saturday 10****th****.**

"You're going to the fair?"

"To accompany the staff, yes."

"So we'll all head out together, after the family have left for the Dower House?"

"It does seem sensible, Mrs Hughes."

The important thing to remember, he tells himself later drinking whisky alone in his pantry, is that she _will_ be going to the fair and he _will_ be walking with her.

And that he almost asked her this time.

-x-x-x-x-

**Monday 12****th****.**

What he has come to realise is that something happened on the beach in Brighton.

Something in the way she offered him her hand broke through every wall he has spent years erecting between his heart and hers.

He can no longer stand by and watch while she passes through his life.

He wants to make a change, believes for the first time in all these years that she may feel the same way.

He knows all this and yet he sips at his sherry tonight and cannot bring himself to tell her.

-x-x-x-x-

**Friday 16****th****.**

They go to the fair together, he and Mrs Hughes. And Mrs Patmore, Miss Baxter, Mr Moseley, Mr and Mrs Bates, Daisy, James and Mr Barrow.

He walks beside her while she talks to Anna about the latest theatre adaptation of one of her favourite books.

He finds himself in conversation with Mr Moseley about the silver, his hand a hairsbreadth away from the small of her back.

His fingers brush against her spine just once while they watch Mr Bates shoot at the tin cans.

He can feel nothing really, between his gloves and her thick woollen coat and yet electricity seems to shoot through his hand for the rest of the evening anyway.

-x-x-x-x-

**Saturday 17****th****.**

"Did you enjoy yourself last night, Mr Carson?" She asks as they pass in the servant's corridor.

"I did, Mrs Hughes. Although not as much as I had hoped to." She is wearing the blue dress that makes her eyes look bright, even in dim light.

"Oh." She says, a frown settling between her brows. "Perhaps next time?"

"Yes Mrs Hughes, perhaps."

They separate and he watches her turn the corner from the side of his eyes.

-x-x-x-x-

**Monday 19****th****.**

Has she always smiled at him like that? How has he never noticed before?

-x-x-x-x-

**Thursday 22****nd****.**

She leans silently against the door frame while he polishes the last serving dish.

She does this sometimes, has for the last few months. Only when her own work has not built up, or a maid doesn't require her advice. When she is finished before him and before they sit down for a drink.

He may, when he knows she is there watching, puff his chest out a little, run the cloth over the silver with an added vigour.

He feels bigger under her eyes.

-x-x-x-x-

**Friday 23****rd****.**

"It's really no bother, Mr Carson."

He shakes his head, huffs. It's very kind of her to offer but; "I don't want to put you out, Mrs Hughes."

She has long lost her smile, the happy up-twist to her lips she had when she offered to pick up his stamps while in the village. She is insisting now only because she is as stubborn as he is.

"Mr Carson, I would not have offered if I thought it would put me out." Except she would, he knows, because she's like that. "Although right now it would serve you right if I skipped the post office altogether."

Her eyes flash at him as her hands settle on her hips.

He opens his mouth to argue some more.

-x-x-x-x-

**Thursday 29****th****.**

He hasn't forgotten that he had an aim at the start of the month. It's only that he is not an idle man and his days get busy.

It will be December soon, her favourite time of year and maybe that will give him better luck?

He would very much like to hold her hand again at least, before the New Year.

**{December, 1923}**

**Tuesday 4****th****.**

She looks delightful in the snow. Pink cheeked with little white flakes resting in her hair where it's visible beneath her hat.

Years ago, the staff would start a small snowball fight around this time. That was when there were more Hallboys and the young girls would come in from the village to light the fires instead of the cook's aid.

Many was the time when he could be found beside Miss Hughes, as she was to him then, planning their attack on the young staff, finding the right size and consistency of snow to utterly soak them but not cause them any harm.

At the end she would always turn the last snowball on him, laugh and run before he could throw one of his own.

Mrs Bird and Beryl would have big cups of hot chocolate waiting for them on their victorious return and he would slip her coat from her shoulders, hang it with his beside the fire in his pantry to let it dry.

She looks at him now and there is a sparkle in her eyes the moment before she looks back at the snow piled up beside the door.

He turns quickly and walks away before she gets any ideas.

-x-x-x-x-

**Thursday 6****th****.**

He always gets her something for Christmas. Just a little something; more personal than a gift from a Butler to the Housekeeper (although he has never bought another Housekeeper a Christmas gift) but nothing that a friend might not expect from another friend.

He has always found buying her a Christmas gift easy; he knows her well and she seems appreciative of whatever she receives.

This year it's harder and he has to make more than one trip to Ripon before he finds something suitable.

She is his friend of course, but now he wants her to know of his changed mind.

He has not managed to tell her with words but perhaps this gift will say it better than he could anyway.

He asks the sales girl to wrap it for him, but leaves the label blank. He will fill that in himself later.

-x-x-x-x-

**Sunday 9****th****.**

_Dear Mrs Hughes,_  
><em>I-<em>

_Dear Elsie-_

_To Elsie_  
><em>Merry Christm-<em>

_Elsie Hughes,_  
><em>I wish you-<em>

_To E. Hughes_  
><em>From C. Carson-<em>

_Merry Christmas-_

_Elsie,_  
><em>This gift is to say that I-<em>

_I hope this keeps you as warm as the sight of you has made me all these years-_

_Christmas is a good time to say I lo-_

_Do let me know if you hate it and I will-_

_Roses are red-_

_Dear Elsie,_  
><em>To me you are as lov-<em>

_Darling, E-_

_Mrs Elsie Car-_

Dear Mrs Hughes,  
>Merry Christmas, I hope the New Year is as happy as you deserve it to be.<br>From Charles

-x-x-x-x-

**Wednesday 12****th****.**

"Twelve days to go, Mr Carson."

"As few as that?" He scowls, there is still so much to do.

"Oh don't be a grouch now, Mr Carson; we'll have everything ready in time you'll see. Just like every year."

"But the tree. and there's still the decorations to bring down - and the Christmas cake!"

Her hand touches his, for just a second, no more than a brush of her fingers against his own.

"The tree has been cut and the boys are bringing it in this afternoon as per _your_ instructions yesterday. Anna and Miss Baxter have already seen to the decorations, the Ladies have been looking at those all week - I wouldn't be surprised if we see a few additions this year. As to the cake." Her look turns mischievous. "I'll let you ask Mrs Patmore about that yourself. But I will warn you, Mr Carson that if you want anymore of her gingerbread biscuits this year, you would be best to leave her to it."

She steps away again, heads for her sitting room.

"I think I'll heed your advice, Mrs Hughes."

She flashes a quick smile over her shoulder as she reaches the door. "It must be Christmas." She says and disappears inside the room.

-x-x-x-x-

**Thursday 13****th****.**

All recent behaviour to the contrary, he actually likes Christmas.

He remembers fondly being a small boy and wishing for a visit from Father Christmas.

It's true that he didn't believe for long, but he has always loved seeing that magic in a child's eye.

He likes the spiced scent the air takes on in the servant's hall this time of year; Mrs Patmore and her girls working on a frenzy of festive dishes.

He likes the way that everyone walks with a spring in their step, even as the days grow long with final preparations.

He likes the decorations hung about the house, the big tree in the hall and the small one in Mrs Hughes' sitting room.

"Isn't it lovely?" She asks as they watch young Master George and Miss Sybbie place the last of the decorations on the family's tree, held up in Mr Branson and His Lordship's arms.

Little hung bits of silver and gold reflect the candlelight, throwing a dazzling array of colours about the room.

He looks at her, her eyes reflecting just as much as the metal.

"Yes," he says, "lovely." And turns back to the tree.

-x-x-x-x-

**Saturday 15****th****.**

"Mrs Hughes!"

She startles and for a moment his heart stops dead as the stool wobbles and she starts to topple.

She catches herself against the bookcase, steadying with one hand against the shelf and turns a dark glare on him.

His heart resumes beating, although noticeably faster than before.

"Was there any need for that, Mr Carson?"

"Need? Of course there was! You could have fallen."

"And almost did when you came in shouting my name!"

She reaches up, fixes something to the ceiling and then starts to step down, using the rungs on the stool's base like a ladder.

He hurries across the room to offer his help as she reaches the last rung.

For a moment he is certain she will ignore his outstretched hand but with a sigh her palm meets his and her fingers curl around his own.

"What on Earth were you doing up there anyway?" He asks once she is safely on solid ground again and her hand has slipped away.

She bites her lip, cheeks flushing. "I was hanging mistletoe if you must know."

He looks up and sure enough, there above them both is a small green sprig.

This is his chance. Forget the walk, tea, the fair. Forget the gift in his wardrobe, right here is where he can finally let her know.

"Mr Carson?" He has been silent too long, staring at her. She leans forward and his eyes drop to her lips, open in concern.

He backs away, coughs and straightens his jacket. "Yes well, next time have one of the Hallboys do that."

He leaves her standing in the middle of her sitting room. He is not running away, no matter that it might feel that way.

-x-x-x-x-

**Tuesday 18****th****.**

Things have been..._awkward_ since the mistletoe incident.

He is aware that this is largely on his end and any oddness from Mrs Hughes is most likely just in reaction to his own behaviour.

He hasn't been avoiding her exactly, he has just not been seeking her out as often as he had before.

He isn't ashamed that he almost kissed her, after all he has high hopes for kisses with her in the future, but that it was so very hard _not_ to kiss her.

He is losing control and that takes some getting used to.

He isn't sure he is ready to hand over that sort of power to someone else, even Elsie Hughes.

Only she smiles, almost timidly, at him at lunch and he can't help but smile back, give a quick nod to assure her that they are okay.

It is quite likely that his little crisis has come quite a few years too late.

-x-x-x-x-

**Friday 21****st****.**

"Mr Carson, I can't accept this."

"Don't you like it? Mrs Marsden assured me it could be exchanged for another if it doesn't suit."

"Like it? Mr Carson, it's- it's a very lovely coat. It must have cost you a lot. Too much. I can't accept this, as much as I might want to."

"Why not? You _do_ like it? Well then Merry Christmas, Mrs Hughes."

"I bought you a book, Mr Carson."

"And I'm quite looking forward to reading it, so long as it's not like the last one you had me read. I had quite a healthy dislike of doctors before that and now I can hardly look at Dr Clarkson."

"You're missing the point."

"No Mrs Hughes, I am disregarding your point."

"Well, at least that's familiar."

"Please, just accept it. You mustn't let all that time spent in various ladies' clothing stores in Ripon be for nothing, Mrs Hughes."

"Well, when you put it like that, how can I not accept it? It's a truly wonderful gift, Mr Carson. Thank you."

"Yes well, I think we have just enough time for a cup of Mrs Patmore's spiced tea before the dinner gong. If you'll wait a moment, Mrs Hughes."

"Of course and, unless I read your card wrong, perhaps, when we're alone like this, you might call me Elsie?"

{And that gift is worth more than all the coats he can afford to buy her.}

"If you'll call me Charles."

-x-x-x-x-

**Sunday 23****rd****.**

They have walked back from church together every Sunday for years.

He can pretend, with her arm in his, that they are married. That he is escorting his wife.

Someday, he thinks, smiling as they pass Mr and Mrs Wilson.

-x-x-x-x-

**Tuesday 25****th****.**

That's it. Christmas is over.

He collapses in his chair and can hardly raise his head at her knock on his pantry door.

"_Oh_, you do look a sight." He manages a glare as she settles into the chair beside him.

Miss Sybbie had wanted to play out in the snow and with Nanny away visiting her sister, he had volunteered to watch the children; their parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles watching from the warm safety of the Drawing Room.

He is not entirely sure how he ended up on his back, a child at each foot but he suspects it had a lot to do with Elsie's appearance at the back door and in his line of sight.

He has dried and changed since, but without a complete wash his hair refuses to lay flat no matter what he does to it and if he looks half as tired as he feels then her assessment is likely correct and he is indeed quite a sight.

She bites her lip and stands. "Wait there a moment."

He means to say that he has no desire to move anywhere right now, but that seems like too much effort and she is already out the door. His eyes slip closed.

"Charles?" She wakes him with a touch at his shoulder and he turns his head to her. "Sit up and drink this." She says and he drags himself from the inelegant sprawl he has slipped into. Accepts the steaming cup she hands to him.

The tea is spiked with brandy and burns through him as he swallows it down.

"Thank you." He says when he has woken enough, warmed enough, to speak.

She just smiles at him, the same smile she had in the doorway before he tripped and fell.

It is hours later that he realises this is the first time she has called him Charles. The thought sees off the last of the chill the tea had not been able to touch.

-x-x-x-x-

**Friday 28****th****.**

"Tea." He says holding up the tray, head bending in a little bow.

"That would be wonderful, Mr Carson. Thank you."

She hasn't looked up from her books, can't see the closed door and he smiles.

When she is set on a task there is very little that distracts her until it is done.

Setting the tray on the table he pours her a cup, adding a splash of milk and only the smallest sugar cube he can find.

He places it at her elbow and returns to pour his own.

When she is finished they will talk; she will fetch a fresh pot of tea and he will tell her that he thinks something is going on between Miss Baxter and Mr Mosley that might benefit from a closer eye. She will likely tell him it's been going on a while and she has it perfectly in hand.

She reaches for the cup, takes a sip and frowns at the accounts, scribbles over something and then leans forward over them squinting down, cup hovering halfway to her mouth.

Charles leans back in his seat, happy to watch.

**{January, 1924}**

**Tuesday 1****st****.**

"Happy New Year, Mrs Hughes."

"Happy New Year, Mr Carson."

She squeezes his hand as she walks past him to the kitchen.

This is the year.

-x-x-x-x-

**Friday 4****th****.**

It isn't that he's scared of her, although sometimes when something has her riled she can be quite intimidating, it's that he worries that he might lose her.

She might not be in his life the way he wishes, but she is _in_ his life, is the greatest friend he has known and he worries that he might lose that, if he pushes too hard, makes demands of her she doesn't want.

Not that he would dream of demanding anything of her. Not even as Butler has he tried that in a few years.

But there has always been this concern that wanting more might lose him what he has.

As they are, they might retire together in a few years, as friends they could marry for companionship and security. That has always been there in the back of his mind whenever he thought about more.

But...

He doesn't want to be just her _companion_, her husband of convenience. He wants to love her, be loved by her. He wants to walk proudly with her on his arm, kiss her lips and the tip of her nose when she's cross with him. He wants her to want to marry him for all the reasons that women want to marry their dashing heroes in the books Lady Sybil favoured.

But that comes with a risk. Losing that almost-everything for just the _chance_ of everything.

This is a long game, chess not draughts.

He has finally decided that the risk will be more than worth it if he wins.

-x-x-x-x-

**Thursday 10****th****.**

"Tell me about your mother." She says, nibbling at the edge of a biscuit.

"My mother?"

His own biscuits are long finished and he looks covetously at the second one laying untouched on her plate.

"Yes, your mother, Charles. Supposing you did have one of course." He can hear the smile in her voice and he flicks a look up, raises an eyebrow.

"Of course I had a mother, father too. I was simply surprised at the request." Which he is; after all until now they have been talking about Lady Edith's peculiar absences this last year and her rather recent interest in one of the farmer families in the village.

"Just a connection." She waves a hand, takes another bite of her biscuit and waits until she has swallowed to continue. "It's no matter, I'm just interested is all. About the woman who raised the Great Charles Carson, esteemed Butler of Downton Abbey."

As much as she is teasing him, he can hear the genuine pride in her voice. His cheeks flush and he looks down to hide them.

"You flatter me, Mrs Hughes. Elsie." He adds quickly.

"Do I? Oh well, we can't have that can we? Wouldn't that be an upside-down world to live in." Her plate and biscuit slide into his line of sight and he looks up to her smile.

"You've been staring at it so much I was afraid you might leap across the table and fight me for it."

"Called a great man and then reduced to a brawler in almost the same breath. I do believe the world is quite safe for now."

Her laugh is bright, a sound he hears far too little these days.

"Well," she says, reaching for the teapot; "so long as the world is safe."

-x-x-x-x-

**Monday 14****th****.**

He has been thinking about the knives. All day, the thought has circled.

They are due for sharpening, Mrs Patmore has begun complaining about their bluntness. It's not a big job, but it is an extra job. He wonders if he should ask Mr Mosley to do it, increase his responsibilities now that he is a Footman, Second Footman by dint of fate and the absence of any others but for James.

He is still thinking about the knives at dinner and when Mrs Hughes passes him the potatoes and asks if he would like some butter, he is as surprised as she is when he says _'yes'_ and then asks her to accompany him on a walk of the grounds tomorrow night.

He is perhaps more surprised that she agrees quite eagerly before returning to her chicken.

-x-x-x-x-

**Tuesday 15****th****.**

She meets him at the back door in her new coat, pulling on her gloves.

He has prayed all day that the weather will hold and while it is almost bitterly cold out, the sky has been clear and there should be little ice along their path.

He waits until she reaches for the door handle before bringing the scarf out from behind his back.

"Charles-?"

He waves away the protest forming, holds the blue bundle of fabric out to her. "It came with the coat."

She looks at him, studies him but finally relents, plucking the scarf up and wrapping it snugly around her neck. "Thank you."

"It's nothing." He says, reaches for the door. Her hand presses against his wrist as she passes through.

"It's never nothing, Mr Carson."

He leads her to the lake, takes the long meandering route there. Five steps from the back door she tucked her arm in his and so he aims to drag this walk out for as long as he can. Enjoy the feel of her curved into his side, her body warm even through the layers of coats between them.

They talk of the House; of Mr Branson's restlessness, of James and Thomas and the unexpected friendship that has struck up there. They discuss Daisy and Mr Mason's farm and he is fascinated by the little snippets of her childhood she lets slip as she argues that it is a hard life, but that Daisy should be strong enough for it.

He tells her, haltingly, some tales of his time on the stage. It's easier now, when they already have Grigg and Alice in the open between them. She laughs, holds his arm tight between both hands to keep steady. Doesn't believe that he could ever juggle five things at once and so he finds stones along the bank and shows her.

The moonlight in her eyes as she watches is dazzling.

Eventually, they head back to the house, say goodnight at his pantry door; he has to lock up now and she is beginning to droop with the late hour.

"I hope, that is... I would very much like to do this again sometime Charles." She nods her head decisively and he fights the soft smile that wants to appear on his lips.

"As would I, Elsie. Perhaps next week? If the weather is fine."

Her smile seems controlled as though she is holding back, but it's no less pleased for it.

"Next week then." She turns, pauses, looks back. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He smiles as he wanders the house securing windows and locking doors. How amazing it is that time spent alone with her without fear of interruption, has made him love her even more.

That, he thinks switching off the lights in the corridor and making his way up the stairs to the attics, certainly bodes well for the future.

-x-x-x-x-

**Saturday 19****th****.**

She has begun to style her hair differently. He isn't sure if he should mention it to her or if he should just pretend she has always done it like this.

It makes her look younger somehow. Emphasises the cut of her cheekbones, the way her eyes sit bright and wide in her face.

He isn't sure, actually, what he would say to her if he did mention it. Will it embarrass her if he says these things, should he keep it simple and just acknowledge the change?

She looks up at him from behind her teacup, must realise what it is that has caught his attention because she blushes.

"You look very, um, nice today, Mrs Hughes."

A smile quirks at her lip and he meant to say _lovely_; nice is biscuits, nice is the way a new tablecloth looks with the full dinner service atop it.

"Thank you Mr Carson." She say, reaches out and squeezes his hand in her own, leaves her fingers curled around his.

Nice is good.

-x-x-x-x-

**Tuesday 22****nd****.**

She chooses the route they take this week and so he finds himself led around to the stables.

The Groomsmen have left and she walks right through to lean against the stable where His Lordship's horse is kept.

"I used to come here all the time." She says, before his mind can wander too far down lanes that consider the bails of hay in the corner and the things he might do with a farmer's daughter if he were a another man.

"You did?" He looks about him, there is very little here and he has never known her to be fond of horses. "You surprise me, Mrs Hughes."

"Well, no one knows everything about everyone, Mr Carson. No one needs to." Her eyes sparkle in the dim light and he smiles at her, raises an eyebrow to acknowledge the truth of her words. "I liked the quiet." She continues after a minute, pulling a crate from the corner to sit on. He pulls up his own and sits facing her, as is their custom these days.

"Surely there were warmer places you could have found? Inside for instance."

He cups his hands and blows into them. He left his gloves in the house, hoped that if she took his hand again, he might feel her skin against his. He forgot to consider that she would wear her own gloves. Still, he does not regret it, even now with his fingers beginning to numb, not when he felt the warmth of her hand, the thin leather not really hiding the fine lines of her fingers as they slipped into the spaces between his.

She arches a brow at him, rolls her eyes before leaning forward and pulling at his wrists. She tugs his hands into her lap, wraps her gloved hands around his. He feels warmer already.

"The house I worked in before Downton was smaller, an old Lord and Lady who needed less staff. Here, there's so many people, so much to do all of the time. At the beginning, when I felt overwhelmed, I would come here and sit, watch the horses and remember how lucky I was, how it might take a while, but I would settle in with time."

Her smile is soft, wistful. Perhaps even a little shy. He tries to remember back to those years when she had first arrived. He remembers her smiles, the soft words she had for the nervous Hallboys and the homesick maids, he remembers how she would argue with Mrs Whitely in the Housekeeper's sitting room; quietly, respectfully and only ever behind the closed door.

"I can't imagine you as anything but confident in your abilities, Mrs Hughes. I must admit I don't remember you looking at all unsure even at the start."

She meets his eyes, turns his hands over in her own to warm the other sides. "Then the time I spent here was successful, Charles."

"When did you stop coming here?" He asks and she leans forward, blows warm air across his fingers. He fights a shiver that has nothing at all to do with the cold.

She looks up at him through her eyelashes. "Who says that I have?" He doesn't think that she means her actions to appear as seductive as they do, but even so if he needed seducing by her, this would work.

Gently, he pulls his hands from between her own. "They're fine now." He says in response to her confusion. "Surely you're not overwhelmed by the house now?"

"No. But sometimes I do like the quiet here, to go somewhere no one would think to look for me."

"Ah, but now I'll know where to look."

"Yes." She says, with that gentle smile she gives her tearful maids. "You will."

Oh. He never really stood a chance at all, did he, of not falling for her?

-x-x-x-x-

**Tuesday 29****th****.**

"What on earth are you doing up there?"

The stool she's standing on wobbles and he has watched this scene before, only this time she has nothing to grasp onto to steady herself and he hurries to her side.

His hands clasp her hips to hold her still before he realises what he's doing.

He releases her quickly, takes a step back and tugs at the bottom of his jacket. His hands tingle from touching her and he flexes them, then curls them into fists at his sides.

"Surely there's a maid that can do that?" He indicates the low chandelier she was just dusting.

"There is, but I was already in here with the duster." She pins him with a hard stare. "I'm quite capable of a little dusting, Mr Carson."

"No doubt, Mrs Hughes. But there _are_ others that can do it." Ones that will not give him a small panic attack to see balancing so precariously all the time. "I'm sure there are other tasks that need doing that only you can."

She hums. "I don't think that's what's got you all twisted up, but I don't have time to argue with you, today."

"Small mercies." He mutters but he takes the hand she holds out to him and helps her down.

She walks away, heads out of the room. Turns back at the last moment and looks surprised to find him watching her. "That's twice now you've almost made me fall, Mr Carson. Please be more careful in future."

She ducks out of the door and he can only splutter ridiculously after her.

**{February, 1924}**

**Friday 1****st****.**

There is definitely something going on with Mr Barrow.

He is looking shifty again, arrogant and a little pompous.

He and Mr Mosley have never appeared to be any great friends, but he has never seen the Footman glare at anyone the way he has taken to at Mr Barrow lately, and Miss Baxter looks uneasy around him too. More than she does around the others.

"Do you miss the old days, Mrs Hughes?" He asks her as she passes him his slice of toast, buttered just the way he likes.

"I don't think I like the implication that I'm old enough to have 'old days' to remember, but I suppose I do, sometimes." She follows his gaze down the table. "Oh, I see. Well I don't miss Mr Barrow and Miss O'Brien conspiring over the porridge if that's what you mean."

"Certainly not!" He takes a bite of the toast, brushes his napkin over his lips to catch the crumbs as he chews.

"But I do miss William, of course. And Gwen." She looks around the rest of the table where conversation is being kept between one or two people sitting beside each other. "Were these meals louder then, Mr Carson, or is that just my memory playing tricks?" She asks, picking up on the same thing he has this morning.

"If it's a trick of your memory then it's one of mine as well."

She nods, bites into her own slice of toast. "Still, I suppose they're happy enough." Her eyes rest on Anna and Mr Bates and darken, the corners pinching.

He should ask her about that, about all of the problems he has seen between the couple these past few months, almost a year now. However they do appear happy again so perhaps he doesn't need to know. She would have told him if he did.

"It would seem so." But he thinks he might actually miss the loud laughter, the gentle bickering. Even Miss O'Brien's caustic sarcasm from the corner.

"Eat your toast before it gets cold, Mr Carson. The bells will start ringing soon."

That has not changed at least.

He thinks about the things that have as he goes about his duties later; perhaps it's nearing a time that he seriously consider his future. Further even than finally raising the nerve to tell her how he feels.

-x-x-x-x-

**Saturday 2****nd**

This is perhaps not what he had in mind yesterday when he thought about considering his future. He had hardly convinced himself to _think_ about it.

He certainly had not intended to find himself in a jewellers in Thirsk trying to recall the size of her ring finger from the very little experience he has of touching it.

But the ring called to him as he passed, as ludicrous as the sentiment is, especially coming from _him_, and he is unable to walk away without it.

It's for the future, definitely not for now; he hasn't even told her of his love yet, he can't present her with a ring and expect any hope of her saying 'yes'. {He remembers Joe Burns all too well and cannot believe that he now feels some measure of sympathy for the farmer.}

No, the ring is for the future, but if he does not get it now then it will be gone and from the moment he saw it, he could not imagine it sitting on any finger but hers. He'll insist she keep it even if she does reject him, what need would he have for a woman's ring after that anyway?

"Will there be an inscription?"

He thinks about it for a moment, for two and then writes one down on the small sheet of paper the jeweller pushes across the counter to him.

_yours_

That will apply even if she never says yes.

-x-x-x-x-

**Monday 4****th****.**

He isn't sure how they got onto the subject of her health, or even how they came to be discussing anything like it, here by the lake.

Perhaps it is the darkness that gives him courage to question her, to bring up this thing that has sat between them for too long.

But as soon as he said it, asked her if she would ever have told him, he wished he could take it back. Only it might be better for it to come up now, when no one can disturb them, when she can turn her face to the glittering water and hide from him a little.

"No." She says eventually and his knuckles tighten painfully in his clenched hands. "I don't think I would have."

He breathes slowly, puts effort in to keep calm; it will help nothing to get angry now.

"But I am glad you found out."

He had not expected that. She turns back to him and it might be a trick of the light, but her eyes glitter in the dark as she looks at him.

"I haven't forgotten that you're on my side, Charles."

"You should have told me." He insists and she looks down at her skirt, fiddles with the pocket of her coat.

"Perhaps. But I couldn't stand for you to think me weak, a dying woman." She says, sounds like she's quoting something.

His heart jerks at the word but he ignores it; she is well now. He has not lost her. "I'd never think you weak, Mrs Hughes."

She smiles but doesn't raise her head. "Maybe. I couldn't take that risk."

He understands that fear at least.

-x-x-x-x-

**Thursday 7****th****.**

"Charles." She shakes him awake and he squints at her in the dark.

"Elsie?"

"Yes, I'm finished now. You can go to bed."

He blinks, pulls himself up from his seat and rubs at his eyes. He hasn't a clue how long he has been waiting for her to be done with the house accounts, but if he fell asleep then it must be late. The last thing he remembers is thinking that the scratch of her pen and the little humming sound she made every few minutes were quite soothing. Too soothing it would appear.

She yawns, hides it behind her hand but not fast enough that he doesn't catch it and fall victim to it.

"I'll follow you up." He says and she nods, heads back out into the corridor, her keys in hand.

He leaves her then to go and lock his pantry. He has already done the final walk around, has checked all the doors and windows.

He meets her again at the stairs and settles in a step behind her.

"Goodnight." She says as she unlocks the separating door.

He returns the sentiment and watches until her room door closes behind her, before slipping into his own room.

Sleep will come easily to him tonight.

-x-x-x-x-

**Friday 8****th****.**

He has held her hand a number of times now, sometimes even taking it himself during their evenings in his pantry over sherry and good conversation. It's always good conversation between them; she is well read and as intelligent as any other person of his acquaintance. Her literary tastes could do with improvement, but then she indulges his talk of Socrates and Homer so he allows for those nights that she turns their discussion to vampires and sewn-together men brought to life by mad scientists.

He finds her captivating, impossible to look away from when her voice fills with passion as she tries to will him with her words, to see what she does in those books.

And so he has held her hand, has told her stories and shared some secrets. He has bought her presents and walked with her. {He has bought her a ring, hidden in his waistcoat pocket, not because he will give it to her yet, but because he finds its presence comforting in the moments when the world feels unsteady and he cannot take her hand.}

He has done all of the things that he thought of months ago, when he hovered outside her sitting room door. And he has received so much in return; her own memories, a secret or two for him to keep. Her name, willingly given to him to use.

And yet he has still not told her he loves her. Has failed at the one thing that he always imagined would be the easiest. After all, he had not found it hard to say to Alice.

It is not that his feelings now are less than they were then, indeed, he thinks that if ever he was made to compare them, then the love he has for the woman who has stood by him these many years, who has not given up on him even at his worst - when he has been his most unapproachable and who has supported him {he will not say without complaint, but} without faltering even as her own health suffered...such a love could not possibly be outdone by any that came before it.

But it is perhaps _because_ of that, that he struggles to tell her. He worries that the words themselves will not be enough, will be a let down after all this time. And that in not getting it _right_ he will lose everything.

Her fingers tap against his chin, raise his face to look at her. "I do love you Charles." She says, as though that were simply the next topic of their conversation tonight.

He gapes at her, cannot bring his thoughts into any sort of order.

"There's nothing to be done about it, of course. We have your precious family to serve, after all." She doesn't say it with her usual bite, but he hardly notices because _she said the words..._

"But I thought you should know, after these last few months. Thought perhaps you might _like_ to know."

_She said the words first._

"Mr Carson? Charles? Surely you can't be this surprised?"

She looks unsure suddenly, pulls her lip between her teeth and nibbles at it. He should say something now, before his silence makes her regret her boldness.

"You said it first." That was not at all what he had in mind and he curses himself as she blinks, eyes filling a little.

"I'm-sorry?"

"No, no." He waves a hand, flaps it really and finally pulls his wayward thoughts in line. "I mean, I had a plan to...I meant to tell you first that I-" He sighs, reaches for her hand. "I had a plan, Mrs Hughes and once again you've derailed it spectacularly."

Her hand turns in his, their fingers slipping between each other.

"You had...a plan?"

He nods. Her eyes narrow.

"And how long exactly have you been working on this plan of yours?"

He adds it up in his head. Laughs at himself when he realises the number. "A hundred days."

She looks surprised again. "As many as that?"

He nods, looks over her shoulder at the clock on her wall as though he might see the time passing there. "Yes, Mrs Hughes. It's taken me a little over three months to say that I love you."

He expects her to laugh with him; it sounds absurd spoken like that when he could have told her that first day in November and meant it no less.

She doesn't laugh and when he looks at her again her eyes are filled with tears and his heart jolts hard, before he notices the smile on her lips. He has never seen _that_ smile before.

"What is it?"

She blinks, raises her free hand to brush the tears away before they can fall. "You haven't said it before. I'd hoped, thought you felt that way with your actions these last few months, but you haven't said it before now."

He thinks his own smile might border on too soft. "I haven't really said it now."

"It was close enough, Mr Carson. Certainly enough in our current situation."

His fingers find the band in his pocket. "But one day." He squeezes her hand and she laughs.

"One day." Then; "But promise me you won't wait another hundred days once we're able."

He laughs with her, his cheeky Scottish dragon. "Where would the fun be in a promise like that?" He asks and kisses her cheek.

_**End.**_

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><p><em>I hope you enjoyed this. :)<br>_


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